Lost Soul
by Mistah J
Summary: In the midst of a crisis, an amnesiac returns to Gotham City seeking answers to his mysterious past. Each facet of Gotham will lead him closer to his true identity!
1. Reflection

Lost Soul

Chapter One: Reflection

It was like a deafening roar. A disorienting jostle before the quiet calm. At least, that is all what dreams can present him. And every time before he wakes up, the dream if that's what you want to call it ends in a rather eerie laughter. He wakes up in a cold sweat, like most people wondering what these visions mean. He finds himself looking to a row of old bunk beds, at least remembering how he got to such a place. To what he was told after he woke up to this haven, he was found at the doorstep covered in mud and suffered through the rain. His origin beyond that remains a mystery even to himself. He was also told that he suffered a high fever for a week, thus explaining a rather bad case of amnesia. Such an ordeal begs the question whether the past can really define a man. To this individual's case, even a name will suffice. He is called John as of now, as in John Doe. And this haven? This place? It is a homeless shelter, a sanctuary for those of bad fate, if not souls who are lost. Such a place is rather fitting for such a man.

Morning comes, along with breakfast. Porridge is all that the community could spare as the main course. Three slices of white bread and a cup of water, the breakfast of champions. The line to the food long and the stature of most of the people are that of broken individuals, lurching in a uniform fashion. Save for John, he is rather fit to physical peak. Though it is hard not to go native in such living conditions. He seats himself with two individuals he has come to acquaint with, Stan and Gil. Stan has a frizzy beard, thick covering his mouth. It makes one wonder here the spoon vanishes to when he eats his bowl of porridge. Stan also has long hair, graying along with his beard. Other than that, his clothes were from the box, used and close to fading. Gil, on the other hand, was a shorter fellow who is bald with dirt on his face. Gil has a rather subtle lisp if one pay close attention.

"Gotta love this, man. Cardboard soup." Gil complains, his bowl near empty.

"Better'n nothin', baldy. 'sides, from the looks of it, ya just want more." Stan replies, chewing on a slice of bread. "So John. Any progress? Remember anything yet?" He looks towards the young man.

"No. But something tells me I've had a better breakfast than this…" his expressions are somber, as though he struggles in contemplation. Such an elusive past taunts him so.

"Fair 'nuff. Though I ain't complainin'. It's better'n stealin' food and live off the streets like some bums…" Stan retorts, concentrating on his porridge.

"Bums like that steal to survive. It ain't pretty, but people gotta survive one way or another." Gil finishing his last slice of bread. "I'm tellin' ya. No one is born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Not 'less yer Bruce Wayne…" And there it is, the name strikes a familiar tune to John's ears.

"Bruce Wayne?" John reflects on the name and why it is so strangely close to home.

"Yer kiddin' right?" replies Gil with a slight snort.

"Kid, Bruce Wayne is known to anyone with a TV. He's the prince of Gotham..." explains Stan, chewing on his second slice of bread.

"I think I know the man…" John struggles to place the name with a face.

"Sure, sure. And I'm Superman!" laughs Gil.

"I ain't too surprised, kid. Rich folk like Wayne might have kids 'round yer age. Rep like Wayne and the skirts, I ain't surprised one bit. Ya look like him too…" observes Stan.

"Hmm…" John again bears a serious contemplative tone in his facial expressions, trying to file faces and fragments of his elusive past like a memory rolodex with missing cards.

"Listen, kid. Let's take a walk. You, me and Gil will stroll 'round town jus' to see whether it'd jog a memory or two…" Stan suggests, wiping his unseen mouth in the thick tuff of his beard.

Why is it so hard? John asks himself. Laughter. It must have something to relate with that grotesque laughter. In the back of his mind, he is a bit afraid to explore it.


	2. Recollection

Chapter Two: Recollection

Downtown, the unlikely trio of Gil, Stan and their young companion, John, stroll for some fresh air to recuperate from the bland porridge and bread as well as aid the amnesiac youth to find clues of his hazy past. Stan, a surprisingly knowledgeable figure of history, specifically in the matters of Gotham, gives John an abridged version about the key events that made Gotham to what it is today. Gil, being Gil, offers side commentaries that often confuse fact from fiction, though humor grants a pleasant divergence from the harshness of reality.

"Yeah, Gotham was never the same after the Great Depression. Businesses moved out to other places. People start gettin' poor. People start gettin' desperate. And with it, crime rose." Stan shook his head, eying the youth if he was paying close attention. John, in truth, was looking at the ravages of poverty around him. It made him wonder how old Stan was, knowing all this historical information.

"You can see it, can't ya, kid?" Gil observes. "People livin' on boxes. Eatin' what they can get and find. A few months back, I was one of 'em, scratchin' and clawin' to see 'nother day. I lucked out. Nancy offered the shelter for me to get a break. It ain't much of a break, but it's a home." Gil speaks of a harsh reality John is not too estranged with, living on the streets somewhat bears no qualms within him. It was as if John has lived on harsher conditions, as if his past is borne of street justice as well as toughness.

"I hear you, Gil. This is terrible. Anyone doing anything about it?" John observes Gotham and its people, pitting two classes against each other where the rich gets richer and the poor gets poorer.

"Yeah. People like Bruce Wayne try their best to make this place better. He's just one man, but money talks. Take today for example…Nancy was strugglin' to find anyone to support her shelter and here comes one of Wayne's people with a fat check sayin' that they'd fund everything the shelter needed. So no more porridge for us, boys. Heh. They'd start workin' on the place this week. Wayne's a good man and so was his pop." Stan was older and wiser than he lets on.

"Does Bruce Wayne ever show up for any of his charities?" John inquires, taking in the sights hoping that it would kick-start a memory.

"A buncha times. Seen 'im in a newspaper with that one time he funded the orphanage. Seen 'im on the TV at that planetarium openin'…" Gil recalls, scratching his bald head.

"Busy man like that, kid, ain't got time for social calls. But must be nice with all that cash, know what I mean? Shame what happened to his family though…" Stan shook his head again.

"What happened?" The curious youth replies, rather fixed on the famous and wealthy local celebrity.

"Well. Not too long ago, Wayne was prolly 'bout a toddler then, his parents got offed in the streets…" Stan tries to remember this one article he came across in the not-too-distant past.

"Car accident?" John prods.

"Naw. Got shot by some punk. Stolen a few things. Strange thing is that he left young Wayne alone…poor kid, prolly took a lot of shrinks to get that image outta his head…" Stan shook his head again, his fingers running slowly through the thick beard.

"That's terrible. What happened next?" The youth was rather fascinated, running several questions in his head pertaining to why Bruce Wayne was so familiar to whatever he was in the past.

"Well, like all story involvin' a prince and a kingdom…Wayne inherited the family fortune and has been one o' the good guys when he was old enough to run the company. The prince became the king and have been trying to save his kingdom ever since." Stan concluded, looking to his companion, Gil.

"Yeah. Terrible rumors runnin' 'round that he paid the punk to off his parents so he could get the money. Don't know how these tabloid mooks sleep at night…" Gil adds, kicking a can out of his path.

"Crime in this place is that bad, huh? Have the police made any efforts at all?" John asks his companions, sorting out the information he has compiled for the past week or so.

"Yeah. GCPD have been doin' their best to keep the people on the streets from killin' each other. Then … there's the Batman." Gil stops, looking up for a brief moment.

"What?" John inquires, the name striking another familiar tone.

"Shut up with that, Gil. Just a myth." Stan nudges Gil with his elbow.

"Nuh-uh, it's true, I tell ya. The Batman ain't no fiction. He watches like some sorta ghost and get ya without another blink. Some people say he ain't human…" Gil was rather creepy when he speaks of such a creature. There was a brief chill that ran through John's spine at the mention of such a creature of the shadows. Then again, something about this urban myth was familiar, but he pushes further inquiries aside to perform the tasks in order for him to survive the harsh, poverty-stricken world fate has plunged him into.

One of the tasks the three men involve themselves in to acquire whatever cash they can obtain is to work at the pier, carrying heavy crates full of unknown contents. But they assume these mariners were legal in how they conduct their businesses. The docks were always abundant for a quick buck, where human resource is always needed to haul in imports and carry out exports. The wage was fair, ten bucks per hour, and they work four hours a day in the docks. Aside from earning some cash, these tasks have maintained John's athletic physique. The young man has always devoted his weeks in keeping in decent shape, for an unknown battle he has yet to uncover. But like any story of youth, a great destiny awaits him beyond the haze and shadows of the future.


End file.
